


Penance

by ClementineStarling



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Thorin Lives, Dubious Consent, Durincest, F/M, Guilt, Heartbreak, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 09:38:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3204545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin survives the Battle Of Five Armies while his sister-sons die, and when the Lady Dís returns to the Mountain, her claims for reparation are terrible.</p><p>(Alternative endings come at a price)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Penance

The night lies smooth as glass behind his eyes as he thrusts – one last time – into the tightness of her flesh, sheathing himself in her body like the steel that was meant to pierce his breast. Death would have been a mercy after all it seems, delivering him from this hunger, and this hurt, and his own treachery.

I must be a beast that I can do this, he thinks just before the shudders of release begin to overwhelm him, and he fills her with his seed and with his shame. And, as though to prove the point, while the madness is seeping out of him, he prays for the silver-spill to take root in her, for him to be free of this burden and of this sin.

His arms tremble with exhaustion, powerful as they once were; his mighty body is still battered, still weak, and it takes every last shred of his strength, not to topple down like brittle stone and bury her under his guilt. For that’s what it must be, pressing down on him with sudden, leaden weight, even though its exact cause he dares not dwell upon. 

His forehead rests against her shoulder, against defiant bone and desperate flesh, a silent plea for forgiveness. He cannot look at her, not now, not yet, but the sprawl of his fingers is tender against her cheek, against the wet, hot trail of her tears. And he pulls her close, into the solace of his still beating heart and a chest strained with suppressed sobs. 

Here lies the line of Durin, he thinks, a twisted knot of wrong ends.

__

 _Give me back my sons_ , she screamed as her fists fell like hammers against his chest, desperate blows upon broken ribs. The pain was excruciating, searing, blinding, hot, but he did not still her hands. He deserved it, deserved every bit of it, and gladly would he have begged for more if only for a moment it had quelled his own despair. But no pain could raze the suffering, no pain would ever bring them back.

He bore her anguish and her wrath like penance, held her till the spite ran out, and the tears came at last, and she wept in his arms. He held her until her breath calmed and her sobs waned. But the silence that followed was even worse. The loss hung heavy between them, heavier than any they had ever shared (and they had shared many), a yawning void of utter hollowness.

It took all his courage to look down upon her face. And when he saw how nightblack the madness was in her eyes, he wished he had fallen too, rather than finally see her broken.

 _Give me back what you took from me_ , she whispered, persuasion in the tips of her fingers as they travelled lightly, gently over the tendons in his neck and came to rest against the flutter of his pulse.

 _If only I could_ , he answered into the softness of her hair. _If only I could, my lady…_

 _But you can, brother_ , she whispered, _you can give me another child._

And although her breath was hot against his throat, her lips feverish, all he felt was a blood-curdling glacier-chill flooding his heart.

He had never thought of her this way, and how could he? No dwarf had wed his sister for a thousand years and more, not since the days of old. It had been a custom long lost and forgotten. And yet, if this was what she asked of him, how could he deny her? Had he not seen their own father destroyed by Frerin’s death? (For it was not right for a father, a mother to outlive their daughters and sons) And when she had come to him, walked up to his throne, without tears, without words, cold as stone, his beautiful, beautiful sister, had he not fallen to his knees before her and begged for her forgiveness? Had he not promised her everything, anything, to make amends? And now that she at last had named her demands, was he not obliged to honour his word?

Mahal, give me strength, he prayed, as he took her hands and kissed them, with humility rather than passion.

_If that is what you’d have me do, I shall submit to your command._

__

His body is a tool as much as it is a weapon. Made to create rather than to destroy and even now that it is damaged, it yields to his will, faithful and obedient as ever.

He allows her touch to raise the heat in his flesh, a forbidden longing to be reigned by her clever fingers. He unlaces his shirt to clear the way for their conquest of his skin - its smoothness marred by recent injuries - and she presses the tips of her fingers into the bruises with twisted artisan-skill, as if to test his patience. As if she doubted his promise to endure every treatment she would deem fit.

He tries not to flinch at the pain her hands inflict, some dull, some sharp, tries not to flinch at the way she looks at him, as if she never set eyes on him before, as if to her he were all new and strange. Their eyes used to be the same colour, he remembers, clear pale winter sky, but now her piercing gaze has become bleary and glazed. Perhaps she is as alien to him as he to her…

 _Dís_ , he whispers, to wake her from her trance, but she just places her finger on his lips, and through all the years and sorrows he catches a glimpse of the stern, imperious princess of Erebor she once was, in the days when Thrór was King under the Mountain, at whose behest every objection fell silent, and he holds his tongue.

She steps backwards as she opens the clasps, buckles and laces of her robes to reveal her glorious body, unblemished vessel of a tarnished soul. She is no less fierce than any dwarf, hard and strong and relentless, and yet they forbade her to fight for their honour and for their land. He himself forbade her to fight, imprisoned her in a smithy or a workshop, sentenced her to a life of art and handiwork, like a bird in a golden cage. And when she struggled and fought against his rule, he reminded her of her place, that he was her lord and her king, and that she had to bear the burden of her sex and her noble birth in different ways than others. And yet, it had been all this safe-keeping that broke her in the end.

He forces himself to smile, this affectionate, loving, o so sad smile, and then he kneels, with downcast eyes, before his queen. He waits for her to strike, but the blow never comes. He waits for punishing nails and hard fingers, but instead her gentle hand cradles his face, a gesture that at last summons the tears, hot well of regret and desperation. _It’s alright_ , she says, like she told her sons when they were small. Cute little dwarflings, both of them, how could he ever forget. Their cheer was his sun, their laughter the tune of his heart. Their brightness lingers, even now, that they rest under cold stone.                                                                                                                                      

Still, their mother’s cruelty outweighs her mercy.

She draws closer, until she is all-too-near and all-too-naked and he can smell her scent, the poisonous lure of the flesh, like a ghost light to lead him astray. He would like to pretend that he is appalled, disgusted, but truth be told, his body is eager, zealous even, before any command. No need to will himself to do this, he just has to let go and follow the path she has set.

His large, battle-worn hands cup the softness of her calves, and while she shivers at this first touch, he traces her firm muscles upwards to the hollows of her knees, marvelling at the feel of silken hair and tender skin. He holds her steady, when his mouth settles against her core, and she trembles at the light brush of his lips over her fur, the heat of his breath, the deft tongue that’s opening her with consummate skill.

He finds her wet. So wet it makes his heart ache and the heat surge in his belly. It is so wrong, and yet it feels so right, he does not care. The gold frenzy has begun to take hold of him, hammers its age-old chant through his veins with increasing urgency. Mine, mine, mine. He delves into her folds with a vile hunger and dwarfish greed, feeds on her pleasure, until her strong legs shake and quiver and her release lies, quite literally, on the tip of his tongue. Only then does he still his mouth.

Her body exudes the furnace-heat of desire, almost singeing, but underneath, at the very fringes of his perception, he still senses the chills of her sickness. Her hands are buried in his hair, and he can’t even decide whether they only rest against his scalp or dig viciously. There is nothing anymore but the taste of her and his need, throbbing, pulsing, longing. Or so he tells himself.

__

She allows his hands to roam her body, which is all hard angles and soft curves, like a blurred reflection of himself. Same pride, same strength, same blood. She lies open to his touch, bare-skinned and beautiful against the royal blue of the bedding, and he runs his palms over her in worship and in rue. He knows what he must do, what he has promised. And he wants it and he cannot want it.

 _Too late for doubts, brother_ , she murmurs and reaches out to pull him forward with unyielding strength, and he obeys her wish and covers her with his massive body, like a blanket, like a shield, like a weapon. I’ll be her downfall, he thinks, whatever she demands, this will ruin her, corrupt what sparse bonds we have left.

And he imagines her by his side, crowned in mithril and diamonds, as befits the queen of Erebor, sister-wife to the King under the Mountain. He sees her unbraided raven hair that – like his – bears the silver of mourning, sees it streaming in the wind like a banner flutters over a battle field. And he sees the proud swell of her belly, attest to their spite and depravity, and she is gorgeous and terrible at once, the grief-maddened lady Dís.

If this is her wish, so it shall be.

His breath is raw as hurt in him, and hot as blood, when he shifts and his hands slip under her thighs and willingly they spread and wrap themselves around him and drag him closer – the feel of her already so lovely and wicked like venom – and her fingers fall to his shoulders, urging him on, and again he obeys and hauls her further towards him, so far he is almost inside her, almost one flesh.

 _Thorin_ , she says, command and plea and law, and then she moves, because she is his equal, always has been, in every skill and every quest, they’ve ever allowed her, and he is hers to take, now and forever, until his debt is paid.

 _Forgive me, sister_ , he whispers, voice breaking, as he sinks into her. _Forgive me._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> And, what did you think of my contribution to the infamous doom & gloom-club?
> 
> Found any mistakes? You'll get extra house points if you tell me, promise! :)
> 
> This is, rather accidentially, a fill for the kink meme-prompt [Thorin/Dís after BoFA. Thorin survives, but Fili and Kili are dead. Their shared grief leads to a shared bed](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/3138.html?thread=4444482#t4444482) which I found via Mistress_Siana's magnificent story [Monsters of the Deep](http://archiveofourown.org/works/659765)... (which is gorgeous and heartbreaking and you should go read it and shower it with praise!)


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